The Doctor's Deductions
by SarahCat1717
Summary: Post-Fall. Told from the POV of those paid to keep tabs on the inconspicuous blonde man. But this seemingly quiet doctor has learned from the best.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first Sherlock fic! I do not own the characters nor do I profit from this in any way. But they sure are fun to play with!

Setting: Post-fall

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Paul worked the afternoon shift at the clinic. Actually, he worked the afternoon shift outside the clinic. And he didn't so much "work" as just watch one thing everyday (well, Monday through Friday) and then text in his observations. For this investment of his time and attention, he would get paid a moderate amount of money. Not "real job" money, but enough for a few hot meals and a shower at the local hostel. He would retrieve this payment from a locker at the local train station once a week. Along with the cash there would be a new mobile phone to use for the coming week's work with one number programed into it. The old one was to be dumped. Sometimes, when he provided especially the right amount of detail that his "employer" was looking for, there was also pack of cigarettes. Paul never wondered too hard about how his employer knew that he smoked when he had only met him once for 2 minutes. Paul did think it was odd that there was always one cigarette missing.

It took some trial and error to find out how much information the man receiving the texts was looking for. At first, trying to please the man, Paul reported a bit too much detail. He reported what time the man he was to be watching stepped out of the doors of the clinic at the end of his shift. He texted about what he was wearing, what he was carrying, and what direction he headed in. This garnered him the response "boring". So Paul then offered less. He just reported when he left (that much the man made clear he needed to know) and which street he turned down. In Paul's defense, this was a pretty boring job. It was like nothing really ever happened to this man he was paid to watch. Nothing exciting anyway.

But after a few days of only offering those bare-bones reports, which were met with silence, he was startled to get a return message one evening. It said "Need more detail today". It was the "today" that struck Paul as interesting. Paul's target had already rounded the corner out of his view, so he jogged to the corner and peaked after the blond, shorter man to see what he could find to report back about. Same jacket. Same guy as always. But then he saw something a bit different as the man stepped off the curb to cross a street. Paul texted "limping a bit today". That week the cigarettes showed up for the first time, along with a small raise.

Paul was a smart guy and knew how to take care of himself. He just had a problem feeling cooped up when he was indoors. Paul grew up in the Yugoslavia during the conflicts. A car bomb went off outside his family's flat. Wall caved in on him and his sister. She didn't make it and he came out of it with plenty of scars, not all of which were the kind you could see. So he preferred to live outside, where you could better see what's coming.

Most people overlook Paul as just another fixture on the street. They walk by him like he's invisible, or inanimate. That's why he and those like him get offered these types of "jobs" in the first place. One could get to thinking of themselves as invisible when the world treats you that way. Wanting to keep that little bit extra coming to him every week, Paul decided he needed to get closer to see what he could see. He moved from the alley across the street to a doorway the next building over from the clinic. No one noticed. No one ever notices him. He was able to text extra little snippits of info now:

"Got invited out for a pint by a coworker but declined" after overhearing a conversation from a few yards away.

"Grabbed arm of some bloke in a long coat suddenly, then apologized. Made a mistake."

"Guy with an umbrella waiting for him today. Exchanged a few words then went on his way. Looked bothered." Paul wondered why this bothered the blond man. He also wondered why the tall guy in the suit had the umbrella when it wasn't raining and he had a car waiting for him across the street. But Paul figured he wasn't getting paid to ask questions.

"Doubled back quickly like he forgot something. Came back out of clinic with blue scarf on." Paul thought this was odd since it wasn't that cold.

Paul was now consistently following the man around the corner, at a distance of course, to see if there was anything else of interest going on. One day he was able to report "Stopped for quite a while to listen to street musician play."

Paul got the rare follow-up question texted back to him this time. "Violin?"

Paul thought that was just plain creepy. "Yes" he quickly typed back.

A few days later Paul did his usual casual watching then rounded the corner. Just as he turned it he almost ran head-long into the blond man who was, apparently, waiting for him. Paul was too stunned to cover his surprise. The man broke a smile but it looked a bit tight and forced as he quickly extended his hand and said "Hi there! My name is John. What's yours?"

Paul reflexively accepted the handshake and stammered out "Paul, sir".

The shorter man had a startlingly firm grip. His steely blue eyes squinted a bit harshly behind the fake, cordial smile. "Well Paul, now that we are on a first-name basis maybe you can tell me why you are following me, hmm?"

Although his mouth ran dry (who thought this little boring man could suddenly be so intimidating?) Paul gained his composure a bit and replied "Don't know what you mean, sir! This is the way to the soup kitchen at the Episcopal Church. I go there for dinner most days. I should really get going. Don't want to miss out on the good stuff."

"Oh, of course." Said the blond man, releasing his grasp on Paul's hand finally. "Sorry. Umm, hey, here take this for your troubles, okay?" The man, "John", fished a fiver out of his pocket and handed it to Paul. John suddenly appeared weary and older as he ducked his head with a thin smile and limped away. He didn't look back.

Paul stood there frozen for a few minutes, turning over the five pound note in his hand. A moment later he collected himself and ducked into the nearest alley and texted his employer nervously. He thought he handled it okay but knew it was his own fault he got spotted to begin with. He reported the whole thing honestly. Today he was not surprised when he got a reply.

"Anything remarkable about the bill he gave you?"

Paul's heart started to pound a bit at this. He hadn't thought to mention the drawing on the fiver. He thought it was just a bit of a doodle on the currency that some kid drew on there.

"Yeah. A smiley face. Yellow."

When Paul picked up his pay the next morning at the train station locker there was no phone. The pay was his usual, plus an extra week. There was a printed note. "Your services are no longer needed." Paul was fired, and just when things were starting to get interesting.

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Thanks so much for reading! Please stay tuned for further chapters and developments! This is my first Sherlock fic and my first fic ever writing form the POV of an outside character. It's a bit of an experiment. Hope it was understandable. Please post reviews and questions if you are moved to do so!


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much to all who are following this story! And special thanks to the two who took the time to review it. Your words were very kind and encouraging.

Sorry this chapter is a bit long! Had a bit of fun with all the deducing! We get to see the "employer" in action in this portion of the story. Enjoy!

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It was 10:00am on a Tuesday. Sarge walked into the Blue Bird Pub and took his usual seat by the window. Jerry behind the bar greeted him then brought him his first 2 pints of the day. He downed the first one rather quickly to stop his hands from shaking. He then started sipping at the second as he leafed through the sports section, occasionally licking his thick fingers to turn the pages.

Sarge only ever read the sports section, the obituaries, and the classified ads. The "real news" wasn't anything but rubbish. He didn't trust it. He saw how some of the missions he had been on never even made it to the press. And those that did were so severely altered they didn't remotely resemble the true carnage that took place.

When he went to the loo a little bit later he bumped into a young stranger coming out of the door. Even though the thin man was nearly knocked into the wall by the large ex-soldier he quickly apologized profusely. "No problem, Private" Sarge replied. He called almost everybody "Private". Some of the usual patrons of the Blue Bird speculated that the aging drunk couldn't remember people's names, or didn't care to learn them, so he used the military term instead.

When he finished the second pint he stepped out into the damp air for a smoke. Damn shame the local ordinates outlawed smoking even in old pubs like the Blue Bird. He looked up and down the street with keen eyes, then let his gaze wash over the view of the park stretching out on the hill before him. He called it "the park" because it sounded better in his head to say "I live in a cozy flat above a quaint pub that has a view of the park" than "I live in a dark flat over a deteriorating pub overlooking a graveyard." The latter was closer to the truth. No mourners today yet.

Sarge was patting down all his pockets for the second time, cigarette hanging from his mouth expectantly, when he resigned to the fact that he must have left his lighter at home. He could have sworn he picked it up on the way out the door but things are always a little foggy for him before that first pint. Cursing under his breath he was about to walk up the flight of stairs on side of the building to retrieve it when the younger guy he nearly toppled came out for a smoke. He lit up then wordlessly held his match out to Sarge, offering him a light. "Thanks, Private." said the old soldier. He had a chance to look over the younger man now. After a few moments of awkward silence he ventured "You're not from around here."

The young man peered at him from behind some long curls hanging over his eyes and simply replied "Obviously".

The tone used by the young man perked Sarge's attention further. He uttered the word with confidence and a dangling carrot. This was very different than the apologetic skinny bloke he ran into outside the loo. But Sarge kept his cool. "So what brings you to this little slice of heaven then?"

"I'm here to see a man about a job" replied the younger man after a long drag.

"Afraid no one is hiring in these parts, Private."

"I am" said the younger man, meeting Sarge's stare.

"Anyone I might know?"

The thin-faced man threw his head back and blew the smoke up in a cloud that lingered around his eyes as he explained in one fast continuos thought: "I am looking for a man who is here everyday. A man who looks out over that cemetery everyday. But not just any man will do. No, I need a man who knows how to really observe things. Someone who notices details and when things are out of place. Ex-military would be nice. Ex-special operations would be even better. Someone who is so observant that they would detect a break-in from two doors down in the middle of the night and have the bravery to follow the burglar in and then 'subdue' him within an inch of his life before tying him up and placing an anonymous call to the police. Something like that happened right around here last week didn't it? Police never did find the helpful citizen who did that yet. You wouldn't happen to know anyone around here who fit that description now would you, _Sarge_?"

Sarge flicked his cigarette into the gutter and squared up on the younger man. His dark eyes flaring, Sarge growled "That's a lot of fancy talk from man who has a few things to hide himself."

The younger man's grey eyes showed a momentary flash of amusement. He smiled cooly though and asked "Oh?"

Sarge was a bit out of practice and not as quick with his words as this stranger, but he knew how to pick up on things too. Old habits die hard. "Your hair for one. It's been dyed that reddish-brown you're sporting. Doesn't match your eye brows and your roots are starting to show. And you are used to wearing it longer on the sides. When I bumped into you before you reached up to tuck hair over your ear like a reflex, but your hair is short there and doesn't need tucking. And you are not used to that leather jacket you're wearing either. It's worn, but it's new to you. When you went to put the matches away you missed your pocket twice, reaching lower. My guess would be you're an overcoat man usually, probably one that matches those nice shoes of yours."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah" replied Sarge, finding that he was actually enjoying this little game a bit. "You just recently started smoking again after having quit for a while. You close your eyes when you inhale. You love it like water in the dessert. Makes sense for a man that recently changed his look. Probably figured 'fuck it all, I'm smoking'".

"Good. Very good in fact." Stepping a little closer, almost into Sarge's personal space, the young man with something to hide asked with a glint in his eye "Is it my turn now?"

Sarge nodded, trying to be nonchalant.

"Ex-military was obvious of course by your nick-name with the locals. But the way you survey the street that you look out on every day...you do so with a certain practiced eye that you can't turn off. You do an initial look up and down the street but linger in the dark corners for a moment to check for movement. Then next you look over each of the visible windows in a linear pattern, making sure not to miss any. The next glance was the big tell though: you look at the roof tops. What everyday citizen looks at the roof tops? No one. Not unless they are looking for snipers. Now for the recent events of a certain night-time vigilante. You sleep light even though you consume a good amount of liquor before bed to counter the insomnia and/or nightmares (those are your trash cans at the bottom of the stair well, yes? And that is a cheap brand of liquor that the pub does not sell.) You are the kind of man who makes mental note of when the neighbors pack their car to go on holiday. So when you heard a few noises late at night coming from their flat you went to investigate. The police report noted that the burglar's attacker subdued him by nearly choking him to death with a military-grade garrote. No such item was found at the scene. Tell me Sarge, that oversized wrist-watch of yours on your left arm, does that little extra button on the bottom hold any secrets? Maybe something you picked up on your travels with the service at some point? Nice toy."

The young man finished spewing his deductions and lit up another cigarette, allowing himself to inhale deeply.

Sarge was stunned for a moment. He then averted his eyes almost sheepishly and dropped his voice "Listen, I got lucky the other night. It was stupid. If you are looking for hired muscle you got the wrong guy. I'm long past my prime and I don't do that kind of work anymore."

The young man waved this off. "I'm not looking for muscle. I just need your eyes and I need quality information reported back to me." With this he took out a small photo of a man and passed it to Sarge. "Do you recognize this man?"

Sarge tentatively took the picture of the blonde man with blue eyes and studied it. With only two pints downed before this dizzying conversation began, it took him a minute to dig up where he recognized him from. Finally it clicked. "Yeah! I've seen him before! He visits the cemetery every weekend, sometimes an odd mid-week evening visit as well. Stopped in here a few times when it was raining. He goes to that newer grave with the dark stone up on the hill. I remember there was a bit of media here when his army buddy got put in the ground. I didn't pay much attention to all that though. Most of the shit on TV news is just propaganda of one sort of another."

"Army buddy? How do you figure that?"

"Well this guy carries himself like a soldier. But the big tell is when he leaves the grave. He turns on his heel like when you leave the presence of an officer you really respect. That and the fact that he makes the trip out here every week. When you fight along side someone in a war you do things like that. You make it a point to remember those who went down."

The younger man looked distant for a moment then cleared his throat. "So the job is this: You notice when this blonde ex-soldier visits his buddy on the hill. You do not do anything that attracts his attention to you observing him. You text me what you observe. I will provide you with a phone to do this. I send money and periodically a new phone to you. You destroy the old phone. That's it. Have we a deal?"

Sarge looked down at his feet, shuffling with indecision. This was definitely interesting and intriguing. A little extra money would be nice. But shady dealings like this didn't sit right with him anymore. He had enough blood on his hands in his lifetime. He wasn't eager to add anymore.

The stranger saw this play out on Sarge's face. He dropped his voice a bit and there was an added sincerity that wasn't there when he was spewing his dead-on observations. All the arrogance was gone now. "I don't mean J-...this man any harm. It's the opposite. I just need to know how he is doing. He can take care of himself but I just...I just need to know."

Sarge met the disguised man's eyes. They were too old for the rest of his smooth face. Sarge extended his hand and nodded firmly.

"Splendid." replied the slender stranger, putting on his gloves. He handed Sarge a phone with one number programed in. "You start immediately." With that the man turned and left.

But a few strides later he turned back quickly. "Oh! I almost forgot! Here's your lighter!"

He tossed it to the aging soldier. Sarge felt the sudden desperate need for another pint.

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Stay tuned to see how Sarge does at his newly acquired job! Thanks for reading. All reviews are greatly appreciated...constructive criticism included. I don't have a beta so all the mistakes are mine.


	3. Chapter 3

The first several weeks of Sarge's assignment were uneventful enough. The blonde soldier arrived on Saturday around late morning consistently. He took the train from London. The taxi fare would be killer to come out this far as often as he does. He walked down the street from the train station with his head down. He knew the route to the grave stone of his friend without having to look up once.

Once he arrived at the stone under the tree Sarge would often go out for a smoke. He didn't like the distractions of being in the pub when he was observing this man standing vigil at his friend's grave. He felt like the noise of the crap telly playing in the background and the useless conversations about whose team is better this year were, in a way, disrespectful when this man on the hill hung his head and gently touched the black stone. Sarge sent as much detail as he could.

"Stayed for 20 minutes. Stood like a rail the whole time. Turned and left quick."

"Stayed for 22 minutes. Looked like he was talking to his buddy again." Sarge texted one week.

"Stayed for 28 minutes. Tensed up halfway. Started pacing and clenching hands. Angry. Came into pub for a drink afterwards. Calmed down."

"Stayed only 12 minutes graveside. Had a hard time getting himself to walk through the gate to go in. Crouched by grave with both hands on it. May have been crying."

Sarge never received any return texts from his employer, nor did he see him after that first meeting. Sarge had questions but willed himself to not look into things further. He never approached the gravestone. He felt he would have been invading in some way on the younger soldier's grief, as if he wasn't enough already sending reports on it to, well, whoever that was.

One day it was raining cats and dogs. The man still came to see his friend's grave. Didn't stay very long but long enough to get soaked to the skin. He jogged the last few steps to the door of the pub and shook off the rain. Sarge was struck by how much the blonde man had aged in just the few months he has seen him coming around. He hung up his canvas jacket on a chair near the hearth to dry but then sat at the bar. Sarge quickly noted the outline of the gun tucked in the back of his pants, concealed by a sedate cardigan. Sarge felt a swell of sympathy for the ex-soldier. When he was just home from his last deployment he also kept his side arm with him at all times. It simultaneously helped him feel safer and also still connected to the rush of war. It was a touchstone to both sanity and insanity when "home" was an confusing term.

Sarge learned a long time ago that the best lies were those that were as close as possible to the truth, and that you should do what feels natural. Also, he was possibly a little buzzed already and he his downfall was always his own over-confidence. Sarge picked up his pint and walked over to the bar. He sat down next to the blonde, wet man. "Jerry I'll take another and get this gentleman another of whatever he's having."

"Oh, umm, thank you but I really shouldn't. I need to get going when the next bus comes in a bit." replied the younger man.

"Just looked like you may need another one to warm up before you hit the rain again, Private." said Sarge, keeping his eyes forward on the display of bottles as he spoke.

A moment later the blonde man offered off-handedly "It's 'Captain' actually." and sipped from the glass that just arrived.

"Oh don't mind Sarge, here!" interjected Jerry from his side of the bar. "He calls everybody that."

"Oh?" Asked the Captain. He turned toward Sarge and extended a hand with a small smile. "Captain John Watson, RAMC"

Sarge accepted the handshake, a notably good handshake, but only replied "Sarge."

"Right..." said the Captain John Watson, getting the hint.

After a few more swallows Sarge couldn't help but ask "So are they still issuing British Browning L9A1's?"

"Sorry?" the Captain responded nonchalantly without making eye contact. When he did glance over at Sarge a moment later the older man responded by pointedly directing his gaze to John's lower back. The Captain sat up a little straighter. "Used to have one. Carry a Sig Sauer P226 now."

A few more minutes passed in silence.

"Nicely concealed garrote by the way. And thanks for the drink." Captain John Watson of the RAMC retrieved his jacket, flipped up his collar, and headed back out into the rain.

Sarge texted soon afterwards "Still carries a gun. Good handshake. Looks dead tired. You could have told me he outranked me."

Sarge received his first text back. "Don't underestimate his observational skills. Do not engage him. Your arrogance could be your downfall again."

Sarge drank a bit more than usual that evening. A few bottles may have hit the wall. "Little smart-ass sod!" could have been heard from the street. He finally fell into a restless sleep. Scenes of dragging the bloody body of too-young private played over and over in his mind. He felt the bullets bruising his ribs again as artillary imbedded in his vest and he let his hand slip out of the man's lifeless grip.

When Sarge next saw Doctor John Watson he did as he was told. A few more weeks passed with the usual weekend visits and observations. As Sarge was finishing up his smoke, John was often finishing up his visit. A nod across the street to one another was now the extent of their interactions.

Then there was an unusually hot and still day. The bar was not air-conditioned. Sarge was a bit more pissed than usual because the cool pints brought some relief. Besides, it was a Tuesday. Figures though that it was one of those rare mid-week times for John to come visit his friend.

The Captain was clearly agitated today. He walked with quick determination to the graveside. Even from the distance of across the street Sarge could see the smaller man's shoulders and chest heaving with the effort of breathing, only part of which he figured was from the heat and exertion. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly at his sides. A silent, sad, one-sided war was raging.

After a bit the war grew more silent. Another tentative truce must have been drawn, or perhaps it was defeat that he gleamed from a quick glance at the Captain as he walked into the pub. He headed straight to the loo and emerged a few minutes later with water droplets still clinging to his hairline and collar. He got a glass of water from the bar and downed it quickly. The mask of composure was back in place for the train ride home.

As John passed Sarge, who was still outside trying to catch a semblance of a breeze, the Captain asked quickly "Hate to bother you Sarge but can I borrow your mobile? I'm running late for some dinner plans in the city. Need to send a text."

"Sorry, no. Never had a need for one." Sarge replied without eye contact, concentrating very hard on the burn pattern of his cigarette.

"Really? Could have sworn I saw you texting on a mobile before. It's only been a glimpse in the reflection on the window of the drug store down the block though on my way back to the station. My mistake. Sorry! Have a good evening."

The Captain continued down the road back to the station with his hands in his pockets, head down. "Shit!" Sarge let slip from his lips once the Captain was far enough away. He did not take the mobile in his pocket out until he was up in his flat, pouring something a bit stronger. He left that last bit out when he pressed send.

That weekend the Captain was back again, his usual time. He was walking down the road slower today. Sarge could tell even from the distance that there was something weighing heavy on the younger man's mind. Sarge was at his normal post, smoking. Just prior to reaching the gate of the cemetary, Sarge thought he saw Captain Watson shoot him a quick look, as if to see if he was watching. John slowed further, head lowered. As a car was approaching down the street it appeared as though John Watson stepped off the curb carelessly, deep in thought. It would appear that way to anyone who wasn't watching him for months and knew him to be a man that would not make such a mistake. A second before the driver slammed on his brakes and glanced John's hip and knee, Sarge was sure he saw it. John braced himself for the impact.

John went down hard enough to scare the shit out of the driver. She rushed out and started calling for help. For just a moment Sarge's hand flickered to his pocket, the thought of calling for medics with the phone tucked away. He caught himself and ran into the bar, yelling for Jerry to call an ambulance. Sarge then took up watching from inside the window of the pub as Jerry ran out with a first aid kit and the rescue squad soon arrived.

John was sitting on the curb now, wincing periodically but providing more words of comfort to the driver about his carelessness and it not being her fault than receiving any care himself. When the rescue squad arrived he was taken into the back of the ambulance. Through the cracked door of the pub Sarge could here him protesting going to the hospital and using technical medical terms to explain that he did not believe his injuries required that level of attention.

Sarge's mind was reeling. He knew this was not an accident. Was Captain Watson trying to kill himself? What would Sarge's "employer" think of this? Would he receive a text back asking him to approach John with a question of some kind? Sarge saw that the Captain was still occupied with the rescue unit, shrugging a bright orange blanket from his shoulders with annoyance. Sarge downed the remainder of his pint in two gulps and headed to the loo. He took out the mobile and started typing a message about the events as fast as he could with thick, slow fingers.

When he was almost done the door to the loo slammed open. There stood Captain John Watson, torn and bloodied. For a smaller man he suddenly commanded the room. He was not slumped now and, although injured, he strode with confidence toward the large man.

"I see you got yourself a mobile now. Welcome to the 21st century, Sergeant." He said with a chillingly controlled tone for someone just struck by a car. He held out his hand while keeping eye contact with the older soldier. Sarge suddenly felt like he was back in basic training getting reprimanded by a superior officer for being in possession of a non-authorized item.

"I really should get in touch with my sister to pick me up rather than take the train. May I use your phone?"

"I'd rather you didn't, Captain." Sarge mustered as sternly as he could.

"Sending an important message, then?"

Sarge closed the phone in his large fist tightly, half-expecting the smaller man to lunge at him at any moment. He straightened his back to his full height and stepped past the Captain, roughly bumping him as he passed quickly. "None of your business." Sarge snarled.

Captain Watson did not move or attempt to follow. A few strides from the door, just as it was closing, Sarge heard the man reply quietly "I beg to differ".

That was the last time Sarge saw Captain John Watson.

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Yeah! Writing tough John was fun! Our doctor is so clever! There will be more to come in coming days. Next stop, Baker Street! Thanks everyone for following the story! Please write a review if you have a moment. Constructive criticism is welcome as well!


	4. Chapter 4

The tall thin man walked through the darkened, dank arches. His eyes scanned the huddled forms that inhabited the space. This section was mostly young people. These were the run-aways and cast-offs of London. Those who called this space home were not yet hardened but not quite hopeful anymore either. A few solicited him along the way. Some asked for money. One asked if he was in need of any substances. A few young women and men straightened themselves up and stood with hips forward in provocative offers of sex for money or warmth or escape.

Tara watched all of this, and then she watched as he strode right up to her as if she was exactly who he came there to see, even though they had never met before now. Anyone else would have found her indistinguishable from those around her. She worked hard at not drawing attention to herself. That was how Tara kept herself safe.

"I have a job for you if you are interested" He said simply as he offered her some folded bills, making sure to position himself so that others wouldn't see him flashing money about.

Tara's eyes flicked back and forth incredulously, as if there was suddenly someone else behind her that he must be speaking to instead of her. "Why me?" She asked.

"Because you don't look stupid and you know how to not be seen. Now don't be boring and just say yes." was his fast and flat reply. "Oh and did I mention that it would mean relocating to a more hospitable part of London than this little slice of paradise?"

Tara felt a bolt of some sensation she couldn't quite explain shoot up her spine and light up parts of her brain that have been dormant for some time. Pride? Excitement? But as soon as it arose her defenses kicked in. These were the practiced defenses that kept her alive.

"What's the job?" she asked. But mind you, she was already extending her hand to take the money.

"I need you to watch someone and not be detected in the pocess. You will send me text messages daily with your updates." As soon as the money left his gloved hand he reached back into the pocket of his leather coat and produced a small mobile phone. "My number is in the phone."

"Who is it? Where?" Tara replied, aware that her heart was beating faster and that her voice was sounding more confident than the usual unassuming stammer she used when panhandling.

"You don't need to know his name. The area is Westminster, address 221B Baker Street. His flat is above a place called 'Speedy's'. There is an alley across the street 2 buildings down that should provide decent cover as well as a few others. There are some cafes that are homeless-friendly, minimal street crime, and the officers that patrol there regularly are not the type to badger young ladies."

"Okay" Tara said with a nod. "I can get there by tomorrow if that's okay."

"Splendid" said the stranger with a small courteous smile that held no real joy behind it. "Oh and I will text you with different locations to pick up your money weekly."

He turned to leave as quickly as he came when Tara mustered the courage to ask him "Seriously though, why me?"

The stranger sighed in a annoyance but she thought she saw a hint of amusement as he tossed his head to clear the audburn curls for over his eyes and explained: "You chose a spot in this arch that was not ideal as far as shelter and privacy goes but that gives you a good vantage point to see who and what is going on around you. It is also a spot that others won't bother to bother you over. You have no physical signs of substance abuse and your hands are relatively clean for someone who sleeps rough. Your clothes as well, although in poor repair, are fairly clean. I see tucked in the top of your backpack is a library book of classical works. You don't just go there for the warmth like some others. You go there to read and to try to pass as 'normal' for a while. Also just visible in your backpack is a blue pressboard folder stuffed with documents. Blue is the color used by the local juvenile courts. But you are no longer a juvenile so you either hung onto your own records for the past few years or you have some siblings still in the system, or both. Having been in the juvenile system for a fair amount of time you know how to present the right faces at the right times to get what you want or need from the situation. You also tend to know who does and does not present a possible threat to you."

"How did you figure that last bit?" She ventured boldly.

"Because when I approached you didn't flinch. I may be a threat to some in this world but not to you. And, in case you were wondering, the man you will be watching will not be a threat to you either." His glance faltered to the ground for a moment. "You may even find yourself liking him. Please don't let that cloud your objectivity in this assignment. And don't approach him under any circumstances." The stranger's voice returned to a stern tone on his final warning, and then he turned and walked off decisively.

Shocked, Tara let one word slip from her lips quietly. "Brilliant."

The tall man's long steps broke pace momentarily. He glanced back ever so slightly. Tara thought she saw a small sad smile.

SHJWSHJWSHKWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJW

Sorry this chapter is short. I promise the next stop is Baker Street! Should be some more action in the future and I needed to split this up a bit. Thanks for everyone who has been following and thanks especially to those who have reviewed and PM'd me. Please don't hesitate to write me with questions and comments. Reviews are appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

Tara packed up her few belongings in her backpack, rolled up her sleeping bad, and started her "move" to Westminster. Although she had the money for the tube, she walked a good portion of the way to conserve her funds. She did however treat herself to a box of tea bags and a bar of chocolate, as well as a real lunch of fish and chips. It's the little things that make a difference some days.

Tara emerged from the tunnel a few blocks away from her destination. It was a good neighborhood and proved to be like what the man described to her. She saw the awning that read "Speedy's" a few buildings ahead. Tara scanned the street for the alley she was told about. It was beyond the door for 221B. She passed the black somewhat tattered door and wondered what kind of man she was hired to watch.

Tara checked out the alley way that offered her a fairly direct view of 221 Baker Street. There were a few bins but nothing too bad. There was an old doorway arch, the door itself bricked up some time ago, that would be a good place to sit in the shadows and watch the black door. She ventured further in. There was a cellar entryway, the kind that was covered by a slanted set of double doors that concealed the stairs. They looked long-since unused, but then she saw something glint by the old, rusty lock. There were just a few metal shavings under where the lock joined the two handles. When she examined it further, sure enough, the lock had been recently cut but put back on to look intact. It seemed the stranger had left her a present. Once cleaned out, the small stairway space provided a good place to hide her things during the day and to hide herself at night, after her watching was done.

Tara requested a take-out cup of hot water from a nearby bakery/cafe. She almost splurged on a pastry but then thought better of it. She had a few chips left in a brown paper bag and half of the chocolate bar. It wasn't too cold yet so she sat on low wall and looked expectantly down the street. She was trying to look like she was waiting for a ride, but she was waiting for a man to walk in or out of the black door.

It was the time now when people were arriving home from work. There were all types passing her by. They didn't look down on her, like when she was panhandling. A few even smiled a bit, and she offered a small smile in return occasionally. She quietly ran the impulsive thought through her mind of being asked by a random soul at the library about where she lived. "Baker Street." she responded casually in her head. But it was a silly thought.

Tara was so lost in her daydream that she almost missed the door for 221B opening. She again pretended to look down the road for her ride, but kept her peripheral vision locked on the door. Tara was disappointed when she saw a older but spritely looking woman emerge and hail a taxi. She only then realized that she was honestly excited to "meet" the man in question. The tall man's words echoed in Tara's mind "You may even find yourself liking him."

The lady, bedecked in a smart-looking purple skirt peeking out from under her pretty coat, smiled as a taxi pulled up. A gentleman stepped out and the "purple lady", as Tara had quickly nick-named her, threw up her hands in recognition. Her slim hands then came to rest on the blonde man's face, followed by an unheard greeting and a kiss on his cheek. The man returned her affection with a light but warm hug and he held her hand as she entered the awaiting taxi. When he turned to shut the door for her, Tara saw a genuine warm smile and a light chuckle on his face. He waved as she pulled away in the taxi for what Tara imagined was a fun night out on the town. The taxi rounded the corner and the man walked up to the door marked 221B. He turned the key and entered as the smile melted slightly from his face.

Tara let her eyes fall into her now-cold tea as she thought "Pleased to meet you". She dubbed him "the nice man" for the sake of her internal dialog.

She sent her first text: "Just got home."

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW 

Sorry for another short chapter! I was pressed for time and it was post a short chapter or nothing for several more days. The next 2 chapters (there will be at least 2 more, as of how it is playing in my head right now) will be more action packed. Next installment should come on Sunday or Monday.

Thanks to all who are following and who have offered reviews and other communication. What started as just an exercise in writing OC characters has really become something I am proud of. And it is loads of fun. Thanks for joining me on this. Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

Tara was very careful to vary her routine. Sometimes she stayed hidden in the shadow of the alley and made her observations from there. Sometimes she sat on the wall with her cup of tea, like she did that first night. On "pay day" she sometimes sat right in Speedy's, although near the back of the cafe, and had a hot sandwich. It was fun sometimes, this watching game. She would hold her phone up and pretend to read and respond to multiple texts (as _normal _young ladies do), although in reality she only ever sent 1-2 texts per day, always to the same person. She hoped that she appeared to just be someone who frequented the neighborhood. Not just because it was good for the job at hand, but because it just felt good.

Tara sent a text in the morning when the Nice Man headed out for the day, making note of if he looked tired or rushed or anything else. At first she wasn't sure if this was the kind of information her employer was looking for, but he never corrected her or sent any other input, so Tara figured she was doing something right.

In the evening she noted how he appeared when he arrived home. It was mostly the same time Monday through Friday, via taxi cab, coming straight home from work she guessed. Sometimes it was just a bit later than usual and he was walking with a bag from the Tesco or he had some take-away. On some of the take-away nights the lights in the upstairs apartment did not come on as usual. She figured those times he brought it straight to the ground-floor apartment and shared a meal with the Purple Lady. She sat in the shadows and wondered what nice conversations they might be having over Chinese food. Later Tara bought herself a lovely steaming container of rice, loaded up with all the sauce packets she could grab in one hand, and pretended she had some company.

"Had dinner with the lady downstairs tonight. Lights on upstairs at 7pm. Lights on then off on third floor at 10:30." Tara sent on such nights.

A few nights here and there he was not home until much later. Sometimes he came in around 8pm or so, looking like he had been through the ringer. She noted his clothes were especially wrinkled. She passed on that info too.

On the weekends he left in the morning on Saturday and returned early afternoon with the same rumpled look. At first she thought maybe he went to a gym or something but then noticed how muddy his shoes were on the rainy days. She texted that day "Out and back at usual times. Wrinkled and tired again. Very muddy shoes, maybe travels out to the country? Maybe by train?"

She was surprised to get a response to this. Two words only: "good guess."

At first Tara felt flattered by the response, as if it were true praise, but the next time she sent a similar text she thought she hit upon the real reason. Now she didn't have to bother her employer with guesses. Now she would just text "Took a train trip again today." Her employer was the kind of man who appreciated brevity. The compliment was a not-so-subtle way of encouraging it.

The nice man had company and companionship sometimes as well. About once or twice a month an attractive man with wonderful grey hair and crooked smile stopped by. Sometimes it was clearly unannounced and he was just standing there waiting for he nice man to get home. Other times they met up at Speedy's or another coffee-shop nearby. The Silver Fox, as Tara dubbed him, tended to bring an official looking file with him. Together they would look like they were going through the information and trying to figure things out. Tara imagined the Silver Fox to be something of an official, either a police officer or a lawyer. They were clearly in problem-solving mode. When Tara thought she saw a breakthrough in their joint venture, she felt a swell of vicarious pride. Something always came alive in the Nice Man during these meetings.

"Met with the grey-haired man tonight at cafe. Worked on a file for 80 minutes. Grey man seemed very appreciative of the collaboration. Blonde man seemed very happy to have helped." She sent off.

For a few weeks the nice man had a girlfriend. She was pretty, touched him arm a lot as they walked down the street together, a laughed at all the right times. She didn't ever spend the night though. Then she wasn't there all of a sudden. The next week the nice man received a delivery of half a dozen yellow roses and a note. In Tara's opinion, this gesture had "It's not you, it's me." written all over it. The nice man did not seem surprised or overly concerned as he stood in the doorway and read the note. Tara thought it looked like he had been expecting this in some way.

So with this knowledge of his schedule in mind, Tara had the middle of the day, Monday through Friday, to herself. She went to the local library at least twice a week. She contemplated volunteering her time there but on the volunteer application there was that line that asked accusingly for her address, so that was out.

Tara went to a hostel once a week for a shower and to use their coin-operated washers. If she budgeted right she could spend the night there occasionally, and of course there were a few shelters here and there as well, but she didn't trust those places. That type of communal living meant brushing elbows with others. It was too much like the youth shelters, group homes and overcrowded foster homes that Tara had bounced through in her teen years. Too many of those supposedly safe environments proved to be anything but. The other girls sometimes took her things or shoved her around to prove a point about the pecking order. Some of the young men were relentless with their advances and groping. Tara was also unfortunate enough to have learned the hard way to spot the adults that did not have benevolence on their mind when they took on the care of young ladies. There were unchaste stares that lingered too long. There were whispers from other girls and boys about who would get you cigarettes, sweets, or substances for the right exchange of favors. Tara learned from her mother's string of boyfriends what too look for and she was often right. So she avoided such places and preferred her private, hidden, although cold and dark covered cellar entry-way on Baker Street.

One of her favorite places to spend some time people-watching, reading, and nursing a cup of tea was the french bakery 2 blocks off Baker Street. The girl behind the counter was kind and never raised a concern about Tara asking for just a cup of hot water and later adding her own tea bag, using a fair amount of honey from their condiment bar. She always asked Tara if she wanted anything else but didn't mind that she never ordered anything. One day the girl casually let it drop how it was a shame that they ended up throwing the leftovers out every night just after closing. Tara checked it out that evening. There on top of the bins was a nice bag full of rolls and danish. It was not in a garbage bag but a pristine white waxed bag with the bakery's logo, like it was packed for a real customer. Tara knew it was meant for her. The sweets quickly washed away her embarrassment of having been figured out. Every time that girl worked, the bag appeared.

But the one item she was dying to try, the pricey chocolate filled croissants, were always sold out by mid morning and so they never made it to the bag. Tara was lost in the revelry of trying to smell them through the glass case one busy morning in the bakery. The bell on the door sounded again. A moment later a slender had tapped her shoulder gingerly as the older woman said "Oh those are my favorite too, aren't they wonderful? So decadent!"

Tara turned and was face to face with the Purple Lady. Even in the close quarters of the crowded bakery Tara noticed she smelled of hearth and home and light perfume. She couldn't help but smile back. Tara felt silly suddenly, like she was meeting a celebrity that she watched on the telly.

The girl stammered "I bet they are. Bit out of my price range though I'm afraid. If you'll excuse me I need to..." and she gestured to the restroom as she made her retreat.

A few moments later Tara re-emerged from the bathroom and was relieved that the Purple Lady was gone. She was heading for the door when her friend behind the counter cried out "Miss! You forgot your bag!"

"Oh, you're mistaken, I didn't order anything." Replied Tara cautiously.

The other young woman briefly left her post behind the counter and brought over a bag to Tara. "Compliments of Mrs. Hudson. She said 'Give this to that nice girl. She needs something to go with her tea.'"

Tara sat on a bench in the unseasonably warm sun that Tuesday and slowly ate the whole thing.

It was that night actually that things started to get noticeably different with the Nice Man. By evening, although it was almost sun down, it was still quite warm. It appeared it was one of the nights that he took one of his train trips after work. When he did show up finally, the first thing that struck her as odd was that he made sure the taxi dropped him off well before his portion of Baker Street. He walked toward his apartment building seething tension, clenching and unclenching his fists. Every person he passed he stared down. It was like he was searching each face for a response of some kind. He even looked that way at the older man panhandling on the corner, whom no one else bothered with. He was like he was looking for someone, but he didn't know who.

The thought then seized her in a great moment of clarity. _Oh god he is looking for me!_

Tara didn't think it was her in particular but the man was looking for people to see if they were watching him. He was stalking down Baker Street waiting for someone to flinch, or look away too quickly, or something. Tara observed this all from the shadows of her alley way. Frozen for a few moments too long, as he was nearing she practically sprinted for her stair way, slamming the door behind her with a bit too much force and noise than she would have liked. She heard footsteps enter the alley way and shuffle about. They approached up to a few feet before the door and then turned in the other direction. More shuffling, then they were gone. Tara stayed in hiding for almost a full hour in the dark, ears straining. When she emerged it was dark out. The alley was decidedly empty. She crept to the edge and peered out at 221B. The lights were on and the windows were open. Music wafted out. Something classical, with strings. Tara looked down and her heart skipped a beat. Her bag from the bakery was where she left it, but neatly folded. Her library copy of Jane Austin, forgotten in the bricked-up doorway in her haste, was leaning neatly against the wall next to the bag.

She texted with nervous hands "He knows he is being watched. Didn't see me but suspects someone is here. He actively searched Baker Street. I have been SO careful!"

She received a return text. "You are not the only one I employ. Perhaps someone else was less discreet. What is he doing now."

Tara typed back a brief report about the music. It continued late into the night. She didn't hear anything back on the mobile. She was even more careful in coming days and spent less time in the alley.

On Saturday the Nice Man looked gravely serious as he set for his usual trip. It took him a bit longer to get back than usual. When he stepped out of the taxi Tara couldn't help but feel immediate concern for him. He was bloodied and bruised, his clothing torn and filthy. Even from watching him through the reflection of a store front with her back turned to him, she could tell that he was physically and emotionally battered. She barely resisted the urge to turn and face him directly to get a better look at the damage. He slowly limped to the black doorway marked 221B. He paused before going in and glanced up and down the street. Tara tried to act natural and took a casual sip of her tea. She hoped she was wrong when she felt his gaze slow as it passed over her direction.

The following weekend the cold air was back again with a vengeance, as was not unusual this time of year in London. Tara saved up for a new coat from the thrift store and a few scarves, so she could change it up daily. She regretted not getting some gloves.

She found a good spot to watch from and waited for the Nice Man to leave for his usual Saturday-morning trip. But he didn't emerge. Finally at 11am, a hired taxi pulled up and the Nice Man accompanied the Purple Lady out to the car. She had a suitcase with her like one would take or weekend trip. The nice man kissed her cheek before she entered the car. He watched until it was all the way out of sight. He then quickly straightened up and marched back in with a look of determination.

Tara was surprised when nothing happened all day. Well nothing but her being cold and hungry as the wind picked up. She nibbled on a granola bar she had in her pocket and did her best to duck in and out of her usual hiding spots throughout the day, all the while keeping eyes on 221B. She wondered in frustration if he crept out during one of the few times she ran into a local business to use the restroom.

As darkness fell, Baker Street was unusually quiet for a Saturday night. The cold must have been keeping most folks indoors. She moved her vigil to the alley way where she was at least sheltered from the wind. At about 9pm she was thinking of calling it a night soon. Maybe he just wasn't feeling well or something simple like that. But Tara couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen. Even with this expectation though, Tara was utterly surprised when the Nice Man emerged from 221B at 9:15, no coat, carrying a steaming mug. He didn't glance about or hesitate at all. He just walked right towards her. Tara felt glued to the spot. She knew she was found out. She was just going to have to face the music. And she was also intrigued.

She remembered that her employer told her that the Nice Man was not a threat. She always trusted that about him from afar. Although determined, he did not approach aggressively. He walked into the shadows and right up to Tara's spot against the wall. He looked her in the eye and extended the cup. "Tea?" he asked.

Tara nodded, dumbfounded, and took the cup.

The nice man appeared a bit nervous all of a sudden. He smiled softly and said "I sometimes accidentally make two cups instead of one. Thought it would be a shame to go to waste on such a cold night. You can, umm, keep the mug too."

Tara nodded again. "Thanks."

"Okay then. Try to stay warm" he said with a slight nod toward her stairwell. And he turned and disappeared back into his flat just as quickly as he emerged.

Tara stood there for a bit longer, not really knowing what else to do with herself. Finally she put the mug down carefully by her feet and started writing a text summarizing the strange event.

Tara knew this was it, she would be fired. No more Baker Street. No more Nice Man and Purple Lady and imagining having Chinese food together. With all those fears swirling as she waited for the return text, she noted that the lights in the flat went out. But he opened a window, even in this cold, and let the classical music waft out again. Definitely string music. Violin maybe?

The vibration triggered by the return text made Tara jump.

"Is there sugar in the tea?"

Well she certainly didn't expect that. Tara retrieved the still-steaming mug from by her feet and lifted it to her lips, eyes still locked on those windows. Just as she tasted it and realized that, yes, it did have sugar, the shot rang out.

She dropped the mug, smashing to bits.

Tara not only heard it but she saw the muzzle blast cut clearly through the dark of the apartment.

Of course she saw it. Immediately she knew she was meant to see it.

SHJWSHJWSHJSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWS HJW

Sorry so long! Didn't want to miss anything and didn't want to split it up again. Will hopefully post again tomorrow evening. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated and questions are welcome.


	7. Chapter 7

"_I should be calling the police. I should be calling the police. I should be calling the police." _The thought ran through Tara's mind over and over again. But her hand, as if acting on it's own volition, auto-dialed the one number that was programmed into the phone. After only a single ring, it was picked up.

"Why are you calling me?" accused the baritone voice.

"There was a gun shot. There was a gun shot in the flat I am sure of it. Should I call the police? Should I go up? Should I..." She stammered out quickly.

"No! No...no...no..." the man on the other end of the line growled out. She could tell he was immediately on his feet and running. She heard a door slam the wall, then outside noise briefly, then the start of a loud engine right before the call cut out.

Tara stared at the phone in her hand for a minute, still trying to figure out her next move. Maybe someone else heard it and knows what to do? She thought desperately. But there was no one. The street returned to utter stillness after the shot broke the night. Still except for the violin music in the flat above.

But the thin man knew. And he was coming. For a moment the realization floated through her mind that it was strange he was never really that far away after all and yet still had her doing the watching for him.

So she waited and shivered from the cold and from fear in her alleyway. She looked down at the smashed mug at her feet and remembered him there handing it to her just a little while ago. And she remembered how he found her out and yet never accosted her about it or made a peep until tonight.

She shuddered harder and let herself acknowledge that she genuinely wanted him to be okay. Tears started to run down her face but she held the sobs at bay.

When she thought she couldn't possibly take another moment of waiting she heard a loud engine approaching fast. Since the shot rang out a few other wayward cars had come by but she heard the urgency of this one coming from blocks away. What she heard was a frantic motorcycle. It skidded around the corner of Baker so hard the driver had to throw one foot down to keep it from capsizing. The leather-clad thin driver was off the bike in front of 221B when it was still moving, letting the bike crash to the ground with the engine still idling. He leapt across the curb while discarding his helmet, revealing the head of reddish-brown curls Tara had last seen all those months ago.

He opened the door and took the stairs two at a time, yelling now "Joooohhhnnn!"

Again Tara's body was moving without the permission of her brain. She was running the same kind of dead-run at the tall man. She got to the open door of 221B as he reached the top of the stairs and whipped open the door, calling that name again, laced with anxiety and desperation.

She paused just momentarily at the doorway. She blinked once, and in that one blink's time she was bombarded with the alarm bells of her own thoughts and instincts of self-preservation. "_This is crazy! What are you doing?! Just walk away! What will he do if he finds that you have followed him in?" _

But quieter, there was the distinct thrill of crossing this threshold. She knew there was no way she was not going in there. And so her legs faithfully, quietly, started up the stairs. She stopped at the landing where she could just see in, pressing her back against the wall.

"John are you alright? I was told there was a gunshot!" The tall man rounded to the front of the stuffed chair where John was seated. She saw John's head lift to meet the thin man's gaze. Relief rolled off the thin man's frame but only momentarily. "Okay. So you are okay." The thin man was nodding his head as he said this, like he was trying to convince himself of the statement as well. But then his tone shifted and his eyes switched to analyzing mode. "Why was there a gunshot, John?" She saw his jaw clenching and his sharp features deeply shadowed by the street light coming in through the windows.

John lifted up his right arm, revealing the gun still in his grasp. He looked at it like he was puzzled that it was there. It wasn't pointed at anything in particular. It was just...there. In a far-away voice John remarked "Because I fired it, Sherlock."

Sherlock scrutinized John carefully, but so many of his own emotions flicked across in micro-expressions. He stepped forward and held out his hand. Very calmly he said "May I have it please, John."

"Sure, right." John replied and handed it to Sherlock, who grasped it by the muzzle and eased it out of John's hand.

Sherlock started to pace a bit, passing out of Tara's sight here and there. But she heard a few metallic clicks like something being taken apart.

"You changed your hair."

"What?" Said Sherlock, sounding annoyed.

"I said you changed your hair."

"Obviously. John..." A sigh and a long pause. Sherlock came back to standing directly in front of John and asked him, actually gently "John, why did you chamber the last bullet."

Sherlock's eyes looked wet and suddenly very very old. He swallowed hard. As John prepared to speak, Sherlock eased himself into the chair opposite John, fingers steepled under his lips.

In a flash Tara knew that was his chair. It was Sherlock's chair, right there across from John's. Her eyes lighted through the shadows of the room and saw things that matched John and things that more so matched Sherlock. "_He takes sugar in his tea" _she thought.

"You were gone Sherlock. You were...dead." He took a few breaths for composure.

"I saw it myself. You told me all those silly things that weren't true. Then you said goodbye and I saw you fall. I saw you bleed on the sidewalk. I saw the medical reports. These are things I should take as fact, right? But a short time later I stood by your grave and I did a very stupid thing. I asked you for an _absolutely impossible miracle._ It wasn't just words. I really asked you to do this miracle for me. And I had faith in you, Sherlock. Always, since that moment the request left me lips I expected you to deliver on that miracle."

John dropped his gaze from Sherlock now and he started to fiddle with the stitching on his chair. "But the thing is, that's crazy. I went back to my therapist and I told her about it. She said it was part of denial and that made sense on a very logical level. I mean, I am a doctor and I know about grieving. She said I would move out of that phase over time. I would accept things. But I never did. I stopped going to see her after I saw her concern when I told her I thought I was being watched. She would have sent me to the loony bin, and rightfully so. I went out there to your grave every week trying to convince myself of the reality of the situation and all I found was more fodder for my possible delusion that you had your network out keeping tabs on me. And at work, and here on Baker Street. All over this city I felt eyes on me."

John seemed to have to make himself look back at Sherlock in front of him now. Tara found she was barely breathing. When he started again his tone was strangely matter-of-fact.

"So that left me with two conclusions. #1.) I was right. You were not dead and had people reporting back to you about my welfare. Or, # 2.) I was, in fact, crazy, and imagining all of it."

John swallowed then continued. "So I started testing my theory, and upping the ante. I walked up to people on the street who were there too often and looked for too long. I accused. Sometimes these people then were suddenly gone and replaced by other eyes. Out with the old soldier at the pub I threw myself in front of a bloody car just to catch Sarge in a lie. But in the end all of those observations were nothing without... without..."

"The final proof" Sherlock added.

"Exactly. Someone once told me that the brilliant ones like to get caught. So I decided that tonight was the night. I made sure that the Tea Girl was at her post"

"The tea girl?" Sherlock interjected.

"That's what I call her to myself. Your girl here on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is out visiting her sister and the Tea Girl was here, so tonight was the night. If I was right, and you showed up or _something, anything_, then I was not indeed crazy. If I was wrong..."

John took a few deep breaths, like someone trying not to succumb to seasickness.

"If I was wrong, and the night just continued on in silence. Then that would mean I imagined it all. I would have to face that I imagined it all and I had no right to keep finding my little bits of evidence that the impossible was going to happen at any minute. I probably could have dealt with that if that was all, but here's the rub, Sherlock, here's where I stopped being a logical doctor about the whole thing. _I knew I would rather go one being bloody delusional than to give on on hoping for that impossible miracle._ But the those two states of awareness can't exist at the same time. One can't know that one is insane and consciously choose to be insane all at the same time. Once you see the man behind the curtain, and realize it is just you, you can't pull the curtain back again and go back to believing in the wizard."

"John, why did you chamber the last bullet" Sherlock asked again.

"You know why, Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock said steadily, as he rose from his chair and took a step forward. John stood also and they were now face to face a mere few feet apart. "You are not crazy. I am here. I can explain it all to you and it will all make sense..."

"I don't care how you did it, Sherlock." John cut in suddenly, shaking his head defiantly, yet almost breaking down. "I really don't care how you did it right now. I just need to know that this is real. I need to know that you are really here" he ended in a whisper.

John's hand twitched then slowly started to move. Sherlock's simultaneously slowly raised a trembling hand. Then suddenly they each shot forward and grasped each other, hand over wrist with the other hands closing over those. Both men clung to the other for dear life. They each readjusted their grips stronger and harder on the other, making sure this was real. The two men heaved great gulping gasping breaths, like one would just breaking the water's surface after almost giving up and letting the waves overtake them. Tara could see it now in both of them. Each had been almost drowning in their own way. And now they were both saved.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWHSJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

I hope that came out like I was picturing it in my head all this week. Please do let me know what you think. I am chuffed to bits by all the follows, favorites, and reviews. They really do make my day.

PS - You may have noticed, I did not mark this fic as "complete" yet.


	8. Chapter 8

Tara crept down the stairs as quietly as she could, over the thresh hold of 221B, stepped around the still-idling motorcycle on the sidewalk, and back to her alley. She opened the door to her stairwell, closed it up behind her, and settled into her sleeping bag. The wind whipped outside and it was quite cold in here as well yet her cheeks were flushed and her pulse raced.

Tara had never been one for trusting others. Her own family, those who were to keep he safe and feeling loved and special, they had let her down. Later the social services people, although many meant well, also failed to see the wolves in sheep's clothing in their midst.

What she saw in the exchange this evening sent her reeling. Although she didn't know much about the story of John and Sherlock (as she now knew them to be named), she did know that Sherlock had to leave John and John never stopped believing in Sherlock. He even believed that Sherlock would defeat death if he asked him to (which it seems that he did). And Sherlock never left John truly alone. Tara had no idea what these two men were to one another but she knew that it was one of the greatest love stories ever. And she was the only one who got to see it. She felt so honored. Even though they didn't see her, she felt so important. She was important because she was the witness to this amazing moment.

She was coming down from her adrenaline high now and feeling suddenly very tired. She snuggled down into her sleeping bag and shed a few silent tears. She was going to miss them. She was going to miss Baker Street. But she would always have this, even if she never told anyone about it. She would always carry with her that she mattered in the world because she was the witness on this night.

When Tara awoke the next morning she wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. She felt different. She felt like she should do _something _other than just get by but she had utterly no idea where to start. She did know that she did not want to awkwardly run into John or Sherlock, nor did she want one of them to come knocking on her door and find the conditions she lived in. Tara counted the money she had in her bank. Her "bank" was literally a hole in the wall of the stairwell. There was one loose brick that she kept an envelope hidden behind. She put a little bit aside every week for the months that she was employed by Sherlock. There still wasn't enough for even a month's rent on a small flat but maybe if she packed up and went to a small village in the country? She was daring to dream. Where did that come from? She closed her eyes and felt around inside herself for the reason. She could feel a little spark that whispered "Because you matter." It was scary and beautiful.

She decided to camp for her waking hours at the library with newspapers and the internet and maybe make a plan for herself.

Her second day of self-imposed exile at the library, her pocket started to vibrate. It was the cell phone from Sherlock.

"Meet me at Speedy's in two hours. Might have a job for you."

Tara was there in one hour 15 minutes. She wondered where this next job might take her. She wondered if this time she would say no. She felt that maybe she didn't like being invisible anymore.

Right on time, she heard the door to 221B shut through the thin wall of the cafe, but who rounded the doorway was not Sherlock. It was John. And John looked rested and alive and light. He came right over and sat down. Tara found herself blushing and hoped he didn't notice.

"Thank you for meeting me here. First off, I'm afraid I don't know your name." He said with a scrunched face.

"Tara, Tara Smith." Her name felt awkward in her own mouth, like she didn't own that name anymore.

"Well Tara, Tara Smith, I am Dr. John Watson. Nice to officially make your acquaintance." John warmly smiled and extended his hand over the cafe table. Tara returned the gesture tentatively.

"I'm sorry!" Tara blurted out! "I'm really sorry about, you know, spying on you all this time and..." She was almost on the verge of breaking down in embarrassment.

"Oh! Hey! No, it's fine. Listen, it really is all fine now." He leaned in to tell her this with what must be a version of his "compassionate doctor" voice.

Tara grabbed a napkin to pat her eyes with and composed herself. "The text said something about a job? I appreciate it but I may be trying to get my own place and so that would take me out of London. But, I mean, I don't know if that will work out, so what was the job?"

John drew a piece of paper out of his inside jacket pocket. "This is the address for the clinic I work for. They are about to advertise for new person to do filing, data entry, and to be trained for medical records keeping. I got in touch with the director about how I know this young woman who is very detail-oriented and resourceful, and who definitely can be trusted with confidential information. She was all for making arrangements for an interview but I then found myself at a strange loss when I did not know the name of the young woman I was recommending. But now I know it Tara, Tara Smith. So if you are interested in the position I can get you a meeting set up."

"So what you are saying is that this is about a REAL JOB?" Asked Tara.

"Yes, If you are interested..."John was cut off but receiving a text. Mumbling slightly under his breath he complained as he typed a brief reply. "He knows I'm right downstairs...but I guess he's a bit too preoccupied. His return to the flat has moved certain, umm, deadlines up with the work he is doing. His project was almost sorted anyway but we will be doing some scrambling. But anyway, that job..."

"Yes! Yes, I'll take it" exclaimed Tara as she took the slip of paper and held it with reverence like her very own golden ticket.

"Splendid!" Smiled John. "And there is one more thing." He reached into his pocket again and drew out a key. He slid it across the table to rest in front of Tara. She saw the little label on it marked "221C".

"Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who is just absolutely lovely, has been having a hard time finding a renter for the little basement flat. It is unfurnished save for a cot and a few other little things from storage. Oh, and there is currently Sherlock's motorcycle parked in the living room. But anyway, Mrs. Hudson has been so kind as to lower the rent considerably and it turns out someone has paid the first 2 months rent in full. I don't know if you have made other arrangements already, but if you want it, it's yours."

Tara felt her eyes welling up. She took up the key and clutched it too chest. It was still warm from being in John's pocket. "Thank you. But why are you doing this? Why are you doing this for me?"

John smiled. "Well I guess I, we, owe you don't we? And besides you seemed to fit in so well here on Baker Street. Would hate to lose such a good neighbor. But you should be warned, being our neighbor, could be dangerous."

For the first time in what seemed like years, a full-on smile broke across Tara's face.

Just the the door to Speedy's was flung open rather dramatically. It was Sherlock, now sporting a long black coat and an impatient look.

"John! Work to do!" He proclaimed simply and held the door open for his friend expectantly.

"Right! Coming!" Replied John, getting up to leave. "So we'll see you around then?"

Tara could muster only a dumb-founded nod.

As John exited with Sherlock the taller man met her eyes meaningfully and gave her a slight bow with his head, which she returned. Then the pair were off running.

JWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSH

A few weeks later Tara was still getting her bearings at the clinic. She was daring to look up at her co-workers from her computer more. Once or twice a week she arrived to work with a chocolate-filled croissant in a crisp white bag. Today she cut it in half and offered some to one of the young nurse's aids who often ran files to her. They made nice small talk while sharing the treat and brushing off crumbs.

"So where do you live, love?" Asked the aid.

"Baker Street."

Fin.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

Author's Notes:

Thanks to all who read and followed and reviewed my story. Words cannot express my gratitude.

This started out as a way for me to write original characters and it kind of took on a lovely life of its own.

But because of the constraints of this format of telling the tale only from what could be observed from the outside by the OC characters, I couldn't delve into some of the motivation I felt was happening with our John. Sherlock is brilliant but John is my hero. I had some great email exchanges with one reader who felt that I was making John grieve too much for too long. I so appreciated her input and perspective because it made me really examine things more. In the end we agreed to disagree, and she gave me the okay to post some of my reply to her here in the author's notes. This was my take on John's process leading up to that night:

With Tara I tried to dig more into the fact that John was carrying on pretty well mostly...he had a girlfriend for at least a while, he still enjoyed a warm relationship with Mrs. Hudson, and still kept in touch with Lestrade, even sometimes consulting on cases that Greg was stuck on.

But back to the ending in question. It all starts with Sherlock's "mourning" in a way. Sherlock had to disappear. Sherlock is of course brilliant but he did work better with his "Conductor of light" and friend, John. Sherlock missed him. As he said to one of those he hired to watch John, he knew he could take care of himself. Having people watch John may have been partially motivated by making sure no one harmed him, or seeing how he was doing in the wake of Sherlock's traumatic "death", but it was also strongly motivated by Sherlock's desire to just know how he was doing. He missed his friend. Back in the Paul chapter I tried to tip this off when he texted Paul "Need more detail today". But Sherlock has the advantage of still being very stimulated by the sorting out of all of Moriarty's webs, and of course he knows that John is still out there and getting on with his life with work and dates and friends and he is safe.

t is the presence of Sherlock's spies, paired with the situation of John's plea to Sherlock for the miracle, that set up the real blockage for John. He couldn't move on truly because there was a constant struggle inside of him - the logical part that told him that Sherlock was dead and he should just accept that, and the part that was still hoping for a miracle (because all things ARE possible with Sherlock). The hope portion kept getting fanned by the appearance of the spies. If it had been told from John's perspective, and not from that of the OC's, the reader would have probably been wondering right along with John if he was just imagining it all. So that is what he was stuck with.

In my head, John didn't consider suicide until he sat down that night and loaded his gun with the shot that Tara was meant to hear and report about. There was only one other bullet in the gun. I don't think John is a weak man, but imagine the weight of that moment...knowing that soon you will either find out if you are right or find out that you are "crazy", and then finding that you prefer to keep on being delusional than to give up on the miracle. So he impulsively loaded a second shot.


End file.
